


Fair Isle

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Victarion Greyjoy wishes to meet, to negotiate the exchange of prisoners.”</p><p>“And will you meet with him, my lord? It is an unusual request, for a Greyjoy.”</p><p>Written for Stannis FicArt Week!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Isle

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt for Stannis FicArt Week: Stannis meeting Victarion Greyjoy after crushing his fleet during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Bonus points if the author delves into their similarities and differences.

Fair Isle was a hell of a place, cold for somewhere so far south and poor too, very poor. The riches of Lannisport and Casterley Rock did not reach out as far as this tiny rock in the sea.

Davos stood on the deck of the Fury, huddled in his cloak. His breath clouded in the chilly morning air, the sharp needles of cold hitting the back of his throat. The boat rocked gently beneath his feet but Davos found none of his usual peace in the motion, just as he had not done the night before, trying to sleep. Battle unsettled him, he had found, and even when it was over he struggled to come to terms with what had happened. He gazed out over the water, purposefully avoiding looking at the debris of war, scattered as far as the eye could see. Broken bits of hull littered the water, splinters of wood, dented helms, damaged weapons. 

The remains of the lives wiped out in this godforsaken place.

There was a certain drive that came from battle, a flood of adrenaline, that Davos had to admit he sometimes enjoyed. He liked that moment when the fear for his life escalated to the point when there was no fear anymore, just an overwhelming desire to live. Afterwards though, in the dark of the night and the safety of his bunk, he was not proud of what he done, unlike many men he knew. He did not revel in the memory of the men he had cut down, the lives he had taken as easily as though they had been his to take. Davos feared the men who could rejoice in such a thing. He would never be a knight, not truly. He knew that now and he did not care.

“Ser Davos.”

The voice was soft, respectful of the quietness of the dawn and Davos’ own reflection. He turned and bowed his head.

“My lord. I trust you slept well.”

Lord Stannis stepped up to the railings and gripped it tightly, apparently unmindful of the cold. His knuckles were white, stark against the darkness of the wood. Lord Stannis was another man who took no pleasure in conflict. It was one of the reasons that Davos admired him so much.

“I slept as well as could be expected, after such a battle.”

Davos nodded, keeping his mouth closed and waiting for his lord to speak again. Lord Stannis did not welcome idle chatter. If he had come to seek Davos out, there would be something that he wanted to tell him. 

“Victarion Greyjoy wishes to meet, to negotiate the exchange of prisoners.”

Davos was surprised. The Iron Islanders were not known for their great compassion towards their captured men. If they wished to meet to negotiate, it could only mean that their situation was dire enough for them to need as many of their men as they could muster. 

“And will you meet with him, my lord? It is an unusual request, for a Greyjoy.”

Lord Stannis ground his teeth and turned his blue eyes on Davos’ face. They were bright with exhaustion. For a moment, he did not say anything in reply and then he shook his head.

“My brother would not welcome the exchange,” he said carefully, “But we killed far more of their men than we captured. It will not affect their numbers greatly if we gave them back a hundred prisoners.”

“Lord Redwyne would welcome the return of his brother-in-law,” Davos said, “And Ser Desmond.”

“I do not consider the exchange for the sake of Paxter Redwyne,” Lord Stannis growled, “I could not care less about Jon Fossoway and Desmond Redwyne but Greyjoy has reached out and he has never done so before. It is my duty to at least meet with him.”

Of course - duty. 

It was always a matter of duty with Lord Stannis, in this case his duty to the rules of warfare. It did not matter what his personal feelings might be. He would have met with the Stranger himself if the Seven had commanded it and he would have done it with the same icy politeness that he performed every unsavoury task with. 

“We will meet him in the afternoon, Ser Davos. You will accompany me.”

“My lord, surely Lord Redwyne-”

“Paxter Redwyne is not invited,” Lord Stannis said sharply, “I do not need his bluster any more than I would need Robert’s. You and I will meet Victarion Greyjoy. If he is serious about the exchange, I will need no other. The decision will be mine and you will advise me.”

There was something final about the statement and so Davos simply nodded. Lord Stannis gave no indication that he wished to speak any more and no indication that he was going to move from his spot at the railings. Folding his arms, Davos leaned forwards and stayed where he was as well, forcing himself to look at the battlefield, forcing himself to watch the little boats just setting out to recover as many bodies as they could. He forced himself to look, because his lord was looking and because Victarion Greyjoy would have looked too. He did not know why, but it seemed important somehow. It seemed important that he know what had been lost.

The meeting took place on the island, in a large tent that flew the Greyjoy banner high and proud. Victarion Greyjoy was standing outside when they arrived, surrounded by a dozen men dressed in armour decorated with the Kraken. Davos had never met the man before but he had heard stories about him and he saw now that they were true. Lord Stannis was a tall man but Greyjoy was taller, and broader with it. He had long dark hair, pulled back from his face and tied in a complicated knot at the back of his head. His eyes were dark, almost black, and there was no softness in them. There was nothing soft about the man. He grinned at them and his thin lips pulled back to reveal sharp, animalistic teeth. 

Lord Stannis dismounted from his horse and Davos followed, leaving their guard on their mounts and looking suitably threatening. It never did do to let an Iron Islander forget the extent of your strength. Davos had chosen the biggest men they had who were still walking after the battle and ensured they were armed appropriately. It worked, he was pleased to see; Greyjoy eyed the men carefully as they arranged themselves into a neat line behind their lord.

“My Lord Baratheon,” Greyjoy inclined his head by the smallest degree, “Thank you for coming.”

“Lord Victarion,” Lord Stannis said curtly, “This is my man, Ser Davos Seaworth.”

“Ser Davos,” Greyjoy allowed his eyes to flicker in Davos’ direction, “You are also welcome. Please, my lord. 

Come in.”

The inside of the tent was dark and smelled of the sea. It had probably been stored deep in the bowels of a ship and rarely saw land or daylight. The Iron Islanders were not known for their willingness to conduct warfare on land. The table in the middle of the tent was old and scarred and the chairs that surrounded it were not much better. The only thing that the table held was three sheets of paper, covered in neat handwriting. Greyjoy placed himself behind these papers and indicated two chairs for his visitors. 

“Can I offer you some refreshment, my lord?” 

A servant clad in a leather jerkin appeared at Lord Stannis’ side, holding a tray with a jug of water, a plate of bread and a dish of salt.

Lord Stannis nodded sharply, his eyes fixed on Greyjoy’s face. The servant poured two cups of the water and offered the food. Davos took a chunk of the bread, dipped in salt, and crammed it in his mouth. He was neither hungry nor thirsty but this mouthful could save his life and he would not take it lightly. Besides him, Lord Stannis ate a wedge of the bread in four bites and then sprinkled the salt in his water, drinking the whole cup in one long, smooth swallow. Greyjoy’s eyes, looking almost predatory, watched him as closely as Stannis was watching him.

“I have one hundred and seven of your men,” Greyjoy began at once, spreading the papers out before him and tapping the first names on the list with a broad finger, “Including Ser Jon Fossoway and Ser Desmond Redwyne. Both of them inform me that their commander would be only too pleased to make an exchange for them.”

There was something mocking in Greyjoy’s voice, as though he did not believe their entreaties had much weight. Davos shifted in his seat and eyed his lord; Stannis was grinding his teeth, as usual.

“They overestimate their worth,” he growled, “But I am prepared to hear your terms. Ser Davos, the list.”

Davos reached inside his jerkin and drew out the list, carefully written that morning by Lord Stannis’ squire. He passed it to his lord, who unfolded it and smoothed it on to the table in front of him.

“I have ninety-five of your men. Yesterday, it was one hundred and one, but six died overnight from their wounds. You may have them back at any time you wish.”

The same mocking tone that had been in Greyjoy’s voice before was now present in Lord Stannis’. There was no point in offering the dead men to their commander; the Iron Islanders would just drop them into the water, a tribute to their Drowned God. There would be no mourning for them.

Greyjoy smirked, appreciating the jest. The smirk was a terrifying thing that twisted his sallow face and made his sharp teeth look sharper.

“I will be frank with you, Lord Baratheon. My brother does not want me to make the exchange.”

Lord Stannis shifted in his seat, the move almost imperceptible. Davos doubted that Greyjoy noticed it, but he did. The source of his lord’s discomfort was clear; two younger brothers, negotiating on behalf of the older brothers who started this war. Two younger brothers, on the front line, and disobeying the wishes of their older siblings. Lord Stannis would not appreciate the idea that he was in any way similar to a Greyjoy, and especially one with Lord Victarion’s reputation.

“Why then-”

“Do you have my younger brother in your capture, Lord Baratheon? Do you have Aeron?”

The question was blunt and, just for a moment, Davos saw a flicker of worry cross Greyjoy’s face. He understood why; if Aeron was missing and he was not on the list of prisoners, the chances were he was dead.  
Davos had supervised the boy who wrote the list. Aeron Greyjoy was not on it.

“We do not,” Lord Stannis confirmed, consulting the papers, “Ser Davos made this list this morning. I trust he was thorough.”

“I was, my lord,” Davos murmured, “Lord Aeron was not among our prisoners.”

Rage and sorrow flashed across Greyjoy’s face and he looked down at his hands. Lord Stannis was watching him thoughtfully, understanding dawning on his face even as Davos imagined it was dawning on his own. Lord Victarion had no interest in exchanging prisoners. He had simply wanted to know his younger brother’s fate. 

When Greyjoy looked up again, his face was composed, the mask back in place.

“I am sorry to hear that,” he said, and his voice was steady, “I would have given you back many of your men in exchange for him. Now, I do not know.”

“I did not know Lord Aeron was so able a soldier and seaman,” Lord Stannis said, “To be worth so many lives.”

“Aeron is a good sailor. He is not so strong a commander. He is still young.”

Lord Stannis’ brow furrowed.

“Then why would you offer so many men for his life alone?”

Greyjoy shrugged, the callousness of the gesture at odds with what he said next.

“He is my brother, Lord Baratheon. An Iron Man does not do well amongst you soft Southerners. Would you not do the same for Lord Renly?”

There was no answer to that and Davos did not dare look at his lord. He could hear him grinding his teeth. Such a question did not have a simple answer for Lord Stannis, Davos knew, and perhaps Greyjoy knew it as well, because he smiled maliciously and tapped his list.

“Will you agree a number for exchange, Lord Baratheon? The terms I was going to offer you now mean nothing.”  
“Allow me some time, Lord Victarion.”

Greyjoy nodded and removed himself from the tent, taking his men with him. Lord Stannis jerked to his feet and began to pace.

“You were right, Ser Davos. A Greyjoy would never make an exchange of prisoners simply for the sake of it.”

“No, my lord. What do you wish to offer him?”

“How many of our prisoners are injured?”

“Forty-seven, my lord.”

Davos remembered the figure from his count that morning. He had not wanted Greyjoy to know that he could not read the list that he carried. 

“He can have sixty back but half of them have to be wounded. I want sixty in return, with up to thirty wounded. In addition,” Lord Stannis closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, “I will offer him ten men of his choice in exchange for Jon Fossoway and Desmond Redwyne.”

Davos thought it wise not to comment on this. He knew what it cost his lord, to pander to the desires of one of the men who had been responsible for the Siege of Storm’s End, as Paxter Redwyne had been. 

“How many men would you have asked for, my lord,” Davos couldn’t help himself, “For Lord Aeron?”

“As many as he was prepared to give, if he would make so stupid a request.”

If Davos had been a braver man, a stupider man, he would have asked what the terms would have been had their positions been exchanged, had Lord Victarion had Lord Renly in capture. Davos was not a stupid man, any more than he was a brave one. He left the question unasked. He knew that even if Lord Stannis was to answer it, he would not like what he heard.

“Your terms are fair, my lord. He will have no choice but to accept them.”

Lord Stannis’ pacing stopped and he looked at Davos curiously.

“Do you really think so? There is always a choice, Ser Davos. That is what makes men so dangerous. They always have a choice.”

Before Davos could answer, Lord Victarion returned to the tent and to his seat. He accepted the terms readily enough, that sharp grin back in place as he realised he was getting the better end of the bargain. He knew how little Jon Fossoway and Desmond Redwyne really meant to Lord Stannis or to King Robert, how little they were worth the men they would be exchanged for. Neither of them was a great sailor or a great commander. Their rescue was simply the right thing to do, the thing that was expected when it came to minor nobles captured in warfare.

Greyjoy came to see them off, mockingly respectful of the guest right to the end. 

“If you hear word of my brother, Lord Baratheon,” he said, resting a large hand on Stannis’ horse’s neck, “Remember what I told you.”

Lord Stannis nodded and turned quickly, galloping away. Davos caught him up and rode by his side, their guard trailing them across the cliff tops.

“That man is an idiot,” Lord Stannis said suddenly, with a complete lack of the conviction Davos would expect to accompany such a statement, “An idiot, Ser Davos.”

“Yes, my lord. That he is.”

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to my beloved Vana for reading this through and reassuring me :)


End file.
